


Scrap and Calms

by voleuse



Category: A Wrinkle in Time (2018)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 07:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: They have run on and cannot hear you.Reacclimation is a challenge.





	Scrap and Calms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatrice_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Otter/gifts).



> Set after the movie’s end.

i. _fast, agitated, perhaps feral_  
Every once in a while, Meg sees Charles Wallace out of the corner of her eye, and he looks like someone else, someone who isn’t _her_ Charles Wallace, but instead that other one, the one that wanted her to love him less. Sometimes she saw him _that_ Charles Wallace he was deep in some advanced text in biomechanics, or when he’d been playing vocabulary with their mother. She’d ask him to clarify something, or respond to him a little more slowly than usual, and his eyes would flicker, narrow, and his jaw would tighten, just a little.

She dreamed about it sometimes, that night surrounded by IT, about Charles Wallace leaving her behind like so much forgotten chaff. 

About her father, leaving them behind. Or leaving Charles Wallace behind, not knowing him, not seeing him, not believing Meg when she told him, no, no that’s Charles Wallace, that’s his son, that’s his brother.

Some days it was difficult for Meg to trust that when she went down to breakfast, her father would be there. 

One morning, she padded down to the kitchen and saw Charles Wallace and her father, sitting across from each other at the table, building a tower of waffle sticks and bacon. She stood just inside the doorway, watching Charles Wallace’s brow crease as he constructed a delicate tower, and their father, staring at his son with wonder in his eyes.

Meg backed out of the kitchen, unseen, and went back to her room. She was afraid, if she broke the spell, she’d find out it wasn’t true.

 

ii. _a stray man before_  
It turned out, in the years when Alex had been gone, Kate Murray had adapted quite well to the life of a single parent. From changing diapers to awkward playdates to science fairs to awkward parent-teacher conferences, Kate had learned to handle it all. As much as she’d made sure she kept Alex present in the children’s minds, she’d forgotten to keep him fully real in her own. Things she knew instinctively--Meg’s moods, Charles Wallace’s routines--she had to explain to him, again and again.

One evening, she discovered Alex in her study, poring not over their shared research, but Meg’s old report cards. Photos of Charles Wallace as a toddler. The apology letter Kate had made Meg write after calling Vanessa Kim “a stuck-up, shallow, Pomeranian of a human being.” (Not pictured: How much Kate had to fight herself to avoid laughing at an indignant seven-year-old with more vocabulary than discretion.) Alex looked up as she entered, a sheepish expression fleeting across his face as he held up a sheaf of Meg’s book reports. “She really does not like her English classes,” he noted.

“It’s a struggle,” Kate admitted, sliding her arms around Alex’s shoulders. “She always wants to know what the point of it is.”

“Not a bad attitude to have,” Alex noted. Kate burst out laughing, and Alex raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I cannot wait,” Kate replied, “for us to play good cop, bad cop with her teachers.”

“Can’t be as bad as that conference,” Alex said. Kate reached over and extracted one of the notes from one of Meg’s P.E. teacher from the pile. After a moment, Alex cleared his throat. “How does a nine-year-old know how to stage a sit-in protest?”

Kate pointed at the end of the letter. “She even snuck in Charles Wallace with a placard.” Then she couldn’t hold it in any longer--she dissolved into giggles. Alex pulled her into his lap, and they spent the rest of the night with Kate reminiscing, one year after another. 

 

iii. _run on, past the dark pool_  
It became a bit of a routine, Calvin walking Meg and Charles Wallace home from school. The kids studied and tutored each other until dinner, and Calvin somehow assumed the chore of washing dishes with Meg. Kate began keeping track of Calvin’s food allergies, and Alex talked to him about where he wanted to go to college, and Meg very carefully avoided looking at her parents when she and Calvin wandered out for their after dinner walks every night.

One afternoon, an extremely polished car pulled up to the Murry house, idling for a few minutes in the driveway before the engine finally shut off. Kate watched from the front room as a woman slid out of the driver’s seat, as she peered up at the house, and finally walked up to the doorway.

At the woman’s knock, Kate swung the door open, and when the woman introduced herself as Branwen O’Keefe, it didn’t feel like much of a surprise.

They sat and chatted over coffee, making small talk about the weather and the latest in PTA news. Kate fought a sense of dislocation--she’d grown used to other parents accusing her of raising feral children, or snobby children, or children who lacked respect for authority. What she wasn’t prepared to deal with, however, was a parent who looked around the kitchen with something like envy on her face, and maybe, as well, something like guilt.

“I wanted to meet you,” Branwen said, finally, “since Calvin spends so much of his time here.” 

“Calvin’s a great kid,” Kate replied. “We love having him here.”

Branwen smiled tightly. “Yes,” she replied. “He seems...much happier, lately.”

“So do Meg and Charles Wallace,” Kate said. “I think the kids are good for each other. Good company.” Branwen’s hands fidgeted on the table, and Kate quelled the urge to reach out and still them. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner, if you’d like.” She looked up at the clock. “The kids should actually be getting home soon, even.”

“Oh, no, thank you.” Branwen stood. “I should be getting home. My husband will be expecting--”

“Of course,” Kate said. She followed Branwen to the door, and felt relieved when Branwen paused before leaving. “You’re welcome any time, you know.”

Branwen nodded. “Thank you,” she said, and then she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, summary, and headings adapted from Elizabeth Alexander’s “[Stray](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/stray).”


End file.
